


like a bow, a prayer

by dawnmay



Category: Chase Atlantic (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Drabble, Gen, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, gossip tour era, possibly one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19802656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnmay/pseuds/dawnmay
Summary: The first “Drugs and Money” thing wasn’t planned. Mitchel crooned, “Gold-plated chain in my pocket” into the mic, approaching Christian’s side of the stage. They weren’t even leaning into each other before the crowd cheered even louder.They do it in Pensacola. Same gimmick: Mitchel invading Christian’s space, and Christian feeling something fluttery in his chest as Mitchel approaches.





	like a bow, a prayer

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write about that little thing mitchel and christian do during drugs & money live. disclaimer: i don't know these people, just written for fun, etc.

When the tour bus rolls through the middle of nowhere, the sun beats down like it’s out for blood. Down here, the heat is living thing, its humid breath sticky and thick. 

The last stop on the Gossip Tour is Pensa… _What is it again? Pensacola?_ Christian thinks, Googling “cities in Florida that start with P” on his phone. 

Mitchel comes out of the bathroom shirtless, a halo of steam surrounding him. His little hip bones jut out the top of his jeans. “Pensacola,” he says, reading Christian’s mind. 

Spending the past four years touring has its way of manifesting physically. They share the same clothes, toothpaste, deodorant, jerk-off lotion. Mitchel also knows how Christian forgets the names of cities they’re in. 

Mitchel turns it into a song. “Pensacola, Pensacola, Pensacola…” 

“It’s just fun to say,” Mitchel says. “They have a town called Tallahassee, too. Like, how many double letters does one place need? And then there’s Kissimmee.” 

“You feeling okay?” Christian asks, concerned. 

Mitchel gets anxious around these American crowds with their low expectations for opening acts. In Australia, they had leverage. People knew them. 

They have this thing about not getting high before a show, just like their whole “no shitting on the bus” thing to maintain a sense of order while they’re otherwise living like unsupervised children, high on a steady diet of adrenaline and junk food. But the honor system doesn’t always work. Mitchel pops a Xanax (or two) before the show, though Christian still sees his hands shaking on stage. 

Between Clinton and Mitchel, two broody thinkers dedicated to their music, they forget how to breathe. Mitchel stays awake until three of four, obscene hours, writing songs that make no sense and that they’ll never release while Clinton sits in the other room, mixing a track to perfection. 

They can’t relax. They don’t know how. Christian serves as a bridge, balancing each of them before they burn out. 

Mitchel brushes off the question, signaling the OK symbol. He scours their collective luggage spilling onto the floor. No clothes are off-limits, Jesse’s name printed clearly on the tag of the suitcase. 

“Let’s see. Should I wear the black shirt or…the black shirt?” Mitchell says to no one in particular. 

Christian shakes his head affectionately and goes back to messing around with his phone, trying to ignore this smile that won’t go away. 

**

The first “Drugs and Money” thing wasn’t planned. Mitchel crooned, “Gold-plated chain in my pocket” into the mic, approaching Christian’s side of the stage. They weren’t even leaning into each other before the crowd cheered even louder. 

They do it in Pensacola. Same gimmick: Mitchel invading Christian’s space, and Christian feeling something fluttery in his chest as Mitchel approaches. 

Christian almost misses the right chord when Mitchel lingers for a beat longer this time. The crowd screams, and yet, they disappear. Christian doesn’t hear a thing. 

**

Mitchel had written Drugs and Money in their L.A. apartment. Christian couldn’t sleep, playing NBA 2K to stave off the boredom. Even their circadian rhythms started rubbing off each other. Clinton’s work ethic found him up at three in the morning, arranging samples in FL Studio. Mitchel matched that energy by writing songs the way people binged Netflix. 

The song had made no sense. Just like their band name, it was arbitrary and void of personal connection. Mitchel wasn’t addicted to drugs and the money they were making wasn’t enough to devote an entire song to. 

It was a Mitchel song in every way, aiming for a certain aesthetic to keep boundaries between themselves and the music. They management had said, recalling their prime Good Charlotte days, “You can’t lose yourself in this business. They get some of you, not all of you.” 

The “You know how I get when I’m in my head” line was the closest to reality. Lost in thought, Mitchel wrote until the rare event of his mind quieting down. 

He woke Christian hours later, finding him with the controller lying on his chest, the video game long forgotten. 

Mitchel towered over him, said, “I think she’s ready.” 

Mitchel sung the chorus then, looking down at the song written across napkins and receipts collected from American diners Sleeping with Sirens recommended. The song came equipped with a standard chord progression, a low-tempo, R&B sound they’d been trying to inject into their debut LP, a departure from the pop punk of their early career. Mitchel was always trying something different, head forever buzzing with ideas. 

He asked if Christian wanted to jump in on a verse. 

Christian refused, knowing Mitchel should be the one to shine. 

**

It becomes a thing. In Florida, Atlanta, Los Angeles, these midwestern blips on the map they haul ass out of the next day, Mitchel sings the line and walks toward Christian. This time, it’s deliberate. Just as they’ve rehearsed, they lean in, foreheads together almost like a bow, a prayer. 

**

“What if we do it like this instead?” Mitchel asks. 

Back inside the tour bus, after wrapping up the U.S. tour, Mitchel and Christian practice their next Drugs and Money stunt. They are best mates, band members, nothing more. 

Mitchel’s lips graze Christian’s neck, breath warm and smooth on Christian’s skin. 

“What about like this?” Mitchel asks again. 

Mitchel pulls him in while Christian’s mind floats. 

“Closer. Like this.”


End file.
